Nobody's Ever Ready
by Uozumi
Summary: The thing about Greenberg was he'd once been real and corporeal. That was twenty-five years ago. When Harris takes measures to ensure it's not Greenberg's ghost haunting Finstock, he brings Finstock along.


**Fandom** _Teen Wolf_ (2011)  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s)** Coach Finstock, Greenberg, Mr. Harris; perhaps maybe Finstock/Greenberg implied  
**Genre** Drama/Fanatasy/Friendship/Supernatural  
**Rating** PG-13  
**Word Count** 706  
**Disclaimer** Teen Wolf c. Davis, MTV  
**Summary** The thing about Greenberg was he'd once been real and corporeal. That was twenty-five years ago. When Harris takes measures to ensure it's not Greenberg's ghost haunting Finstock, he brings Finstock along.  
**Warning(s)** potential indirect spoilers up through season two episode eleven, desecration of human remains  
**Notes** This is based on a drawing I've been doodling for the past few days. The more I drew it, the more headcanon I developed and it all just kind of needed to become its own fic. I figure like in _Supernatural_, it takes all kinds of people to be hunters. It wouldn't really surprise me if Harris was one. Actually, it would explain a lot about him I think.

_**Nobody's Ever Ready**_

Beacon Hills and hunting were similar. Even if you managed to escape, both had a way of dragging you back eventually. Adrian Harris felt that acutely now. He set down the salt container on the ground and fished a long match appropriate for lighting a grill or fireplace out of an inner pocket of his suit coat. "Are you ready?"

Bobby Finstock stood awkwardly beside him. He pulled something out of his back pocket. He unscrewed the cap and then poured a bottle of Sunny D over the skeletal remains. "He loved the stuff."

"Yes, I remember," Harris said.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Finstock looked over at him. "It sounds like we're going to barbeque him."

"We'll know on Monday," Harris said. "It might be another ghost."

"Well, I always did suspect with all the redecorating to my office that the ghost could be Mrs. Collins," Finstock said. "Wackiest Home Ec. Teacher ever," he murmured and shook his head.

Harris nodded. The two went to Beacon Hills High in the late eighties. Harris had been in Peter Hale's class and Finstock in the class above them. Finstock was responsible for lacrosse coming to their high school when they only had only a handful of schools to scrimmage with in the state. Harris never played but he knew enough of the original team that he went to some of the games during their school years. The school's strongest sport at the time had been basketball.

"Are you ready?" Harris asked.

"No." Finstock capped the bottle and then looked around before discreetly dropping the empty bottle down into the casket they opened earlier. "Nobody's ever ready for this kind of shit."

Harris did not respond immediately. "Would you like to say anything first?"

Finstock shifted his weight. "Not much of a way of saying thanks, desecrating your grave like this. When I said don't call me, I didn't mean don't stop talking to me." Finstock paused. "Dammit, Greenberg, you idiot. Instead of running off after me, you should have just warned me about the prank. Or called my mom. She'd have had both of us by the ear inside the house before we even ended up in that stupid creek."

Harris remained silent. He reached into his pocket to retrieve his lighter when Finstock was quiet for several minutes.

"Shit…" Finstock dissolved into quiet cursing. Then he ran his hands through his hair. "I guess this is where we barbeque him."

"It's not technically a barbeque," Harris stated. "We're going to purify the body and reduce it to ash. We're not going to baste the bones and then eat them." He lit the head of the long match. He held it up.

Finstock reached over and carefully took it from him. "Let me. It's my fault he ended up like this."

Harris relinquished the match. "You didn't give him pneumonia."

Finstock looked at Harris. Then he let the match fall into the grave. Soon the bones caught fire and the flames engulfed everything in the grave. Finstock's eyebrows drew together and his lips made a long straight line on his face.

"Where'd you learn this anyway?" Finstock looked at Harris after the flames began to calm.

"My mother taught me," Harris said. "She used to tell me stories about people who became creatures. She said it was a struggle between anger and responsibility. They're more like dogs than rodents. Some will be bad, but not all." They watched the fire grow in intensity.

"So, a ghost in my office. What's next? Werewolves on my lacrosse team?" Finstock's eyes continued to watch the flames, his voice a little distant, searching for distraction.

Harris did not answer immediately. "If your office hasn't calmed down when you go back on Monday, let me know. We could have attributed it to the wrong spirit or Greenberg's spirit is tied to an object."

"Just so long it's not my jock strap," Finstock muttered.

Harris pretended he did not hear that comment. He watched the flames put themselves out. He surveyed the grave. Nothing remained. He handed one of the two shovels nearby to Finstock. They worked to fill the dirt back into the grave and then they parted ways.

**The End**


End file.
